Page 8 of Love, the Duke (Say I Do #3)
C HAPTER 8
MAN’S PRACTICAL GUIDE TO APPREHENDING A THIEF
SIR BENTLY ASHTON ULLINGSWICK
Assess motives with discretion.
Through the window at White’s, Hurst could see dense fog had settled over the cold, damp afternoon. No one would know spring was more than six weeks old. Hurst had arrived at the club early to meet his friends and had garnered one of the coveted tables near the fireplace. He liked the warmth, but Rick would complain that it was too damned hot to sit that close to the fire. Hurst would smile, and they’d both shrug it off.
Later, when he returned home, he’d send a message off to his cousin and ask that he come see him. Hurst didn’t think for a moment that his cousin had anything to do with the missing chalice, but he was more than a little curious about what William was doing in the area of Wickenhamden and at Winston’s church.
Feeling unsettled after his visit with Mrs. and Miss Stowe, Hurst looked around the room. He liked the quietness of the famed club. Distinguished gentlemen sat talking in hushed tones while sipping a coffee, brandy, or their favorite afternoon drink. Occasionally there would be loud laughter from someone, or an acquaintance might stop by and say hello, but mostly the members left one another alone if they didn’t have a pre-appointed time to meet. Respect for privacy was of utmost importance to most everyone who entered.
Knowing his afternoon drinking habits, the server had brought Hurst a glass of claret almost as soon as his backside hit the chair seat, but he had yet to take a sip of the dark-red wine. He’d been too busy thinking about things he had no business thinking about as he stared into the crackling, popping fire. The past being one of them.
Hurst had often wondered what his father would say if he had lived long enough to see his son sitting in the most renowned club in all of England, and as a duke at that. Hell, what was he thinking? His father would have been the duke instead of Hurst if he’d been alive. It wasn’t that Charles Kingsley couldn’t have been a member of White’s, but he’d never had the money. Not that his allowance and inheritance from his grandfather, one of the former Dukes of Hurstbourne, wasn’t enough to sustain a membership. It was, and more. Or would have if his father hadn’t wasted the generous amount bequeathed to him on livelier, less distinctive clubs and gambling hells that suited his habits better, and all the drink he could hold.
As the first son of a third son of a duke, Hurst’s father had advantages but never learned how to use them to make his own way in life. He didn’t have the discipline that would be required for military duty, or the control and temperament that would be needed for the service of a clergyman. Those were about the only two means of work a man of the ton could boast of having and expect to maintain even a smidgen of his status as a gentleman.
Hurst had considered the life of ministry for a while. Courtesy of the steadiness of Winston and his family’s influence when they were boys. That was before his mother’s sister paid for him to go to Eton and later to Oxford, and before he became close friends with Wyatt and Rick. There was a short time Hurst had acted as carelessly as his father, but it hadn’t taken him long to realize that lifestyle wasn’t for him. He wanted to be nothing like the man. He’d been reasonable, responsible, and respectable for too long to change into a reckless wastrel about Town.
His father had never learned to manage anything in his life. Not his allowance, nor the amount of his drink, gambling, or his temperament. So, Hurst had to learn how to manage them all—well, perhaps he hadn’t learned not to raise his voice in a heated argument. Still, some of the lessons he learned were hard and he hated when thoughts of them came to mind.
There was another person he’d been thinking about the past couple of days. Miss Stowe was at the top of his short list of two. It didn’t take much to remember her. And it was much more pleasurable than thinking about Charles Kingsley. If Hurst was awake, it was a sure bet she’d cross his mind every few minutes. She was inherently more and more compelling every time he saw her. He sensed an innocent vulnerability in her that matched a need inside him to protect her as if she were his very own. That had him fighting the feeling she was the lady for him.
She was rash, foolhardy, and wouldn’t listen to his good, sound advice, and she irritated the hell out of him because of it. She was stubborn too. He wanted, expected, to marry a proper young lady. Not one who insisted upon going into people’s houses to secretly search for a chalice.
Despite all that, he felt responsible for her. Maybe because he hadn’t gone to see Winston but kept his plans to visit his aunt and the round of winter parties she’d planned for him to attend. Or because he hadn’t followed through on his youthful promise to do whatever his friend might ask of him but instead took care of his lands. Possibly his feeling of being responsible for her was a combination of both and other things as well.
None of that usurped the fact that Miss Stowe was a danger to herself. Her courage was undeniable and admirable, but she still needed someone to look after her. Her mother would be the obvious choice, but she had the same feelings as her daughter in wanting to make sure Winston wasn’t labeled a thief. All that was understandable to a degree. He didn’t think either of them fully understood the ramifications of Miss Stowe’s actions if she was caught pilfering through someone’s belongings—no matter the reason. Love, loyalty, and a sense of right and wrong were driving them. Those were difficult things to fight.
Heat from the fire settled into his bones and reminded Hurst there was more to think about Miss Stowe. Touching her had been a nice reward for helping her wiggle out of that blasted chest. Thinking of it made him smile. He liked the way she’d felt beneath his hands. Her shoulders were slim but not bony. The muscles surrounding her rib cage were firm but not hard. He’d been tempted to slip his hand down to the curve of her waist, over the flare and roundness of her rump. But that wasn’t his way.
Miss Stowe puzzled him. Everything about her told him that with her he had met his match. That she was the one he was waiting for even though he kept rejecting the idea of it. He’d always expected to be knocked off his feet by a lady who looked and acted like the ones he’d met when he was visiting Aunt Sophie’s house, the ones he danced with at parties and balls in London. All of them lovely, shapely, and demure. Not one of them would have ever dreamed of taking him to task over anything nor would they consider going after a thief.
But they didn’t have Miss Stowe’s intoxicating scent, sharp wit, or blue eyes. No, not just blue eyes—incredibly blue eyes that at times seemed to be peering into his mind and searching for his soul. The demure ladies his aunt introduced him to hadn’t shown courage, determination, or strength to match wits with him. Not one of them had given him the desperate desire to pull her close to his chest and kiss the warmth of her neck. Not one of them had made him think that she was strong, intelligent, and brave enough to take care of herself even though it would be his responsibility to do it. Only Miss Stowe.
She had to be the one he was waiting for. Even with her boldness, her temperament, and her outlandish ideas of hiding behind men’s clothing and sticking her head and shoulders into a chest.
Frustration over what he’d felt for her caused him to grit his teeth. He had to come to terms with the fact that her lips beneath his, and the weight of her breast—
“Good afternoon, Your Grace.”
Hellfire.
Hurst straightened in the chair and cleared his mind of the enjoyable and purely masculine thoughts that were about to lead him to some heavenly daydreaming.
“Good day to you, Lord Gagingcliffe.”
The man bowed. “Pardon my interruption, but I couldn’t help but notice you were alone and wondered if you might enjoy some company.”
“Gracious of you, but I’m waiting for someone. And I see they have just walked in the door.”
“Perhaps another time. I wanted to talk to you about the Brass Deck Club.”
That was odd. Gagingcliffe had to be a few years older than Hurst. “Are you interested in being a member?”
The baron laughed. “No, I’m afraid not. I know it’s a younger men’s club. I have a friend who is interested in joining. Mr. Wilbur Sawyer. I thought perhaps I could put in a good word for him.”
“I know the name and he’s been mentioned before. We do occasionally accept new members and are considering a couple at present. Certainly. We’ll chat about him another time.”
The baron walked away as Rick and Wyatt walked up.
“Looks as if you started drinking without us,” Wyatt said as he pulled out a chair.
“Boredom set in waiting for the two of you to get here.”
“Must have been something other than that.” Rick glanced at the wine. “It looks as if you wanted to start early, but I can see your glass hasn’t been touched.”
“I was just about to doze off,” he offered, knowing neither of them would believe that.
“If he hadn’t been so hard to please and had married before he turned thirty, he wouldn’t be so bored,” Rick offered as if it were a fact.
Hurst looked at the two strapping men and snorted a laugh. They never minded giving him a hard time. He didn’t mind either. Their friendships weren’t predicated on tiptoeing around one another’s feelings. They were more a brotherhood of friends who were more family to him than his own father had been.
His levelheadedness in most things was the characteristic that drew Wyatt and Rick to Hurst so long ago. He was just the kind of friend they needed to keep them out of more trouble than they usually got into. That was another thing his father taught him how to do.
“Both of you stop grumbling, sit down, and tell me why your messages were so insistent on meeting with me this afternoon. I’ve hardly seen either of you since you arrived in Town for the Season and suddenly, we must meet today. Is this about some of the new members of the Brass Deck? Gagingcliffe was just over wanting to talk to me about a fellow.”
“There’s that too. The club business can wait. I think you are the one who needs to tell us what’s going on with you,” Wyatt countered, pulling his chair up to the table.
“Since when is anything more important than our sporting club?” Hurst asked, smiled, and then added, “Other than your wives. Of course, that always goes without saying.”
“True, but that’s not the reason we needed to see you. You know new members always like to make their mark by trying to make new rules and bring in their own friends,” Rick offered with an air of nonchalance.
“What do they have in mind this time?” Hurst asked. “They know everything has to pass by us before it can be voted on.”
“They want to shorten the name to the Deck .”
“Damnation,” he whispered. “Why would they want to get rid of the word Brass ? Don’t they know what it means?”
Wyatt held up his hands to quiet Hurst. “We started the club, and we will handle it as we always do. Maybe we should plan an unofficial meeting and hear what they have to say.”
“All right. Let’s do it,” Hurst agreed. “I’ll have it at my house.”
“Good. Now that we have that over with,” Wyatt chimed in. “You looked well deep into your thoughts when we walked in. What’s going on with you?”
He was and had been thinking about Miss Stowe since she came into his life and identified herself.
“Nothing,” he answered without guilt. “Why?”
Wyatt shrugged. “We don’t believe you. That’s why. Fredericka doesn’t let anything go on in her house that she doesn’t know about,” Wyatt continued. “So maybe there’s something you want to share with us.”
Hurst shrugged. “I don’t know much about wives, but that sounds normal to me.”
Wyatt chuckled good-naturedly. “What isn’t normal is that she saw you eyeing a certain young lady last night, and then a few minutes later watched you follow her out of the ballroom.”
That got Hurst’s attention.
“Is she someone you met at one of your aunt Sophie’s winter parties and forgot to let us know?”
Hurst brushed his hair away from his forehead. He studied the fact that his friends knew he’d met someone in secret and were now obviously eager to know all about her. Ever since they had married, Rick and Wyatt had always wanted to know about Hurst’s quest to find the lady of his dreams. No matter what he said, he couldn’t seem to make them realize he wasn’t looking for her. He had always believed it would happen when it happened.
They had tried to give him help he hadn’t wanted when they were in London last fall by inviting him to dinner after dinner at their homes and conveniently inviting eligible young ladies and their parents to join them. The trouble was that they were ladies he’d already met and knew were not the belle he wanted to marry.
Rick and Wyatt had known for a long time he wanted the lady who was right for him. And if he had found her, she wasn’t who he’d been expecting.
“I didn’t meet her at my aunt’s house,” was all he answered, not at all sure he wanted to tell his information-seeking friends anything about Miss Stowe, her reason for being in London, or her unusual search.
“Fredericka doesn’t know where the two of you went to meet.”
Just as well. Wyatt certainly wouldn’t have liked the reason.
“You mean she didn’t follow me to find out?” Hurst asked with a mock look of surprise.
Wyatt gave him a lopsided grin. “I told her she should have. Instead, she only kept watch on the doorway for your return. She knew the lady came back first, collected her nervous-as-a-cat mother, and they left almost immediately. You returned to the ballroom only minutes later, stayed only a short time, and left before speaking to either one of us.”
Hurst blew out a disgruntled snort of disbelief. It was laughable that he was being observed while he watched Miss Stowe. “What’s this?” he grumbled in mischievous amusement. “Am I being spied on in your house now?”
“Do you need to be?” Rick asked.
“What we really want to know is, are you in trouble that we don’t know about?”
“No,” Hurst stated, cocksure about that.
“Is someone trying to trap you in a parson’s mousetrap?” Wyatt asked.
Frowning, Hurst gave another resounding, “No.” A forced marriage was the last thing Miss Stowe had on her mind. Her mother didn’t seem to have any leanings in that direction either. He would have picked up on that when he talked to her.
“You left before you’d even said hello, which is unusual for you,” Wyatt said as the server quietly placed a glass of claret in front of each of his friends.
“Which we knew meant you didn’t want to talk about her,” Rick added.
That was an accurate assessment. “I’ll have to remember how astute Fredericka is and be more diligent about who she is watching every time I pass under your doorway.”
“We are curious,” Wyatt admitted, picking up the conversation again.
“Since when can’t a man have a rendezvous with a lady without anyone knowing about it or questioning him about it should they discover the secret meeting?”
“You can have all you want.” Wyatt grinned. “We just want to know who she is.”
Hurst chuckled. He was warming up to the idea that his friends were interested in who he was with. “She was in your house, at your party, Wyatt. Why ask me about her? Besides, I assumed you conveniently forgot to tell me you invited her.”
“Hurst has a good point,” Rick said, a wrinkle of concern forming between his eyes. “Why did you invite her to your house and not tell him?”
“How the hell do I know why she was invited? I don’t know her,” he grumbled, good humor vanishing from his face. “Unfortunately, I didn’t see her. Fredericka only knew the young lady was new to Town. Mrs. Bristol asked if she could bring Mrs. Roberta Stowe and her daughter.”
Hurst picked up his glass for the first time and took a drink. The wine went down easily and gave him time to take a much-needed deep breath when he realized they didn’t remember the name Stowe.
“Who is she?” Rick asked impatiently.
“Winston’s sister.”
Wyatt and Rick locked eyes with each other.
Hurst knew what that meant. They didn’t remember the name Winston from the hunting lodge. For a moment he wanted to be offended, but then he realized they had moved past the hunting trip, past the messenger who was so prepared he brought ink and quill with him so that Hurst could respond to the letter. Hurst had written the answer declining to offer marriage, and to Wyatt and Rick that was the end of it. The event was no more than a passing of ships in the night. They had no reason to remember. He understood.
“My friend who asked me to marry his sister when we were on our hunting trip.”
Remembrance dawned on both his friends.
“The vicar’s sister. The lady he asked you to marry,” Wyatt said, rubbing the back of his neck thoughtfully.
“Yes. We talked about it and decided I had the option to consider it. The three of us did and I declined.” And now Hurst wondered if he had made the right decision that night.
Had he gone to meet Miss Stowe and seen her for the first time dressed as a lady instead of a man, if he hadn’t known about her schemes to find the sacrament, would he have known without the doubt churning inside him that she was the lady for him on first sight? Had all that happened tilted fate and clouded what he’d always felt to be true? He wouldn’t know because he’d never gone to see his friend.
“And a vicar’s daughter.” Rick whistled through his teeth. “I’m remembering it now. He said she had a good soul.”
“I think it was that she had a gentle soul,” Wyatt corrected, but then added, “or maybe it was a gentle soul and good heart? Damnation, Hurst, we didn’t remember her name, much less what her brother had said about her. Is she making her debut?”
In truth, Hurst’s memory hadn’t been much better until Miss Stowe showed up at his home. But he knew one thing: Winston didn’t know his sister very well or he wasn’t telling the truth in his letter. Miss Stowe wasn’t anything like how her brother described her.
Rick drummed his fingers lightly on the table as all three men were silent while they each had a sip of their drink.
“Fredricka met her and said she was lovely, but she also said all the young ladies at the party were lovely so that is no clue whatsoever.”
“They were,” Hurst ventured to say. He’d met most of the ones making their debut, but Miss Stowe was the only one who had stayed on his mind.
“Did she come to Town hoping you might find an interest in her?”
“And did you?” Wyatt asked.
“Just cough up the details and tell us about her,” Rick complained impatiently. “Don’t make us pull it out of you question by question.”
“She didn’t come to Town looking for me. Someone else.” For a moment he didn’t know what else to say, but then he asked, “Do either of you know anyone who collects religious antiquities?”
They both sent curious looks his way.
“What does this have to do with Miss Stowe?” Rick asked inquisitively.
“She’s looking for a particular person to ask about a specific item having to do with her brother’s church.”
“I know of some who venture into antiquities, yes, but religious?” Wyatt shrugged. “That would be unusual and no one that I know of.”
“Me either,” Rick responded. “Why does she need a particular person?”
Hurst saw no reason not to tell them what he knew about Miss Stowe’s search for the chalice and the reasons for it. Leaving out, of course, that she dressed as a man to enter his home. No one should ever know that. Or the fact that the second time he saw her, she was actually searching Wyatt’s book room to see if he might be the thief. Fredericka definitely wouldn’t like that.
It was best to allow them to think he and Miss Stowe had met in the book room only to learn more about each other. If they wanted to believe it was more than a friendly visit, he would leave that up to them.
“Keep the information about the theft to yourselves,” Hurst added. “If there really is a thief in London, he doesn’t need to be forewarned that someone is looking for him.”
Both men nodded understanding, making Hurst think he’d gotten out of that conversation easily enough until Rick surprised him with, “So what do you think about her?”
He thought too much about her too often, but wouldn’t tell them that. In fact, there wasn’t much he wanted to tell them concerning Miss Stowe. Each time he saw her, the pull was stronger that they were meant to be together.
Saying nothing wouldn’t satisfy Wyatt and Rick so he offered, “She’s even-tempered.” Sometimes. “Strong-minded.” All the time. “And definitely not a shrinking violet, which I’m sure you’ve already assumed since we met in secret at your house. I’ve always thought one of the things that made a lady beautiful was her attitude, and she has it in spades.”
Wyatt studied him a little deeper than Hurst liked before remarking, “So she’s nothing like the vicar portrayed in his letter.”
Hurst smiled to himself. “That’s safe to say.”
“It sounds like we need to meet her.” Rick picked up his glass and asked, “Will she be in London for the rest of the Season?”
Would she? Hell, yes. She might not believe it, but she didn’t have a chance of finding that relic the way she was going about it. But damn if he didn’t admire her for trying. And if only for her courageous effort alone, maybe he should try to help her in some way even though it went against his better judgment.
“I don’t think she’ll be leaving London anytime in the near future.”
“Good. I’ll talk to Edwina,” Rick said. “We’ll plan a dinner and make sure she’s invited.”
Suddenly Hurst had visions of Miss Stowe slipping away from the dinner party to secretly search Rick’s book room as she had Wyatt’s. He couldn’t let that happen. Especially when he knew what she was searching for wasn’t there.
“No,” he said quickly. “That won’t be necessary. I’m sure you will see her at a party soon and I’ll introduce her. If not, we’ll plan something casual. Maybe we’ll meet at Covent Garden or for a walk in Hyde.”
Hurst picked up his drink again. Yes, he needed to do something to help Miss Stowe. And suddenly he knew exactly what he was going to do first.